


A Misplaced Trust

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, M/M, Seasonal, with a hint of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur meets a freezing-cold musician with an enchanting smile, and asks him on a date. Little does he know that they'll soon be colleagues - and, unfortunately for Arthur, the charity he works for has a strict "no fraternising" policy.<br/>Meanwhile, why has his sister, Morgana, departed under a cloud? And why won't she return his calls?</p><p>Rated teen and up because I have never got round to censoring out swear-words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Carols

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This work is inspired by the BBC/Shine production "Merlin"; I am just playing with the characters, and promise to put them back when I've finished.
> 
> This chapter written for the "Carols" square on my Merlin Holiday Bingo card.

Although Arthur doesn’t particularly like working for his father, he does like the idea that, as well as earning a bit of cash—not as much as he needs to fund his lifestyle, he has his own trust fund for that, but enough for a few extras—he’s doing something to make the world a better place.

So it’s with an air of contentment that he finds himself, one early December evening, pottering around Camelot Christmas Market, eyeing up chic presents for his sister and her girlfriend, and trying to find something witty but inoffensive to give Gwaine for his “secret Santa” present at the office Christmas Party later this month.

There’s a cold, North wind tonight, and he’s wrapped up warmly, but still shivers a little and thrusts his hands into his pockets when an icy gust blasts through his coat. A brass quintet are standing outside Tesco playing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”, and he stops for a moment, smiling.

A very small, insistent person accosts him. She’s wearing festive reindeer antlers with bells on the end, and a slug of snot is extruding onto her top lip. She jabs a collecting tin, hard, at his stomach, so that he has to double over to hide his pained “oof!”

“Cam’lot Silver Band, please give gen’sly”, she says in adenoidal tones, before wiping her nose on a grubby sleeve.

The band breaks off on a strangled note, and an adult clutching some sort of brass instrument jogs up, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her away before she can do any more damage to Arthur’s abdomen. “Freya!” he admonishes. “Now, now, you mustn’t bash people like that; they won’t want to donate any money if you punch them in the stomach!”

She scowls—as menacingly as it is possible for someone who is not yet 5 years old, anyway—and pushes out her bottom lip. She seems on the verge of an explosion; Arthur recognizes the signs from his 4-year-old god-daughter, Nimue. Hastily, he acts to salvage the situation.

“Don’t worry,” he says to the adult, who appears to be shivering violently, and on second glance doesn’t appear to be much more than a teenager himself. Slipping a ten-pound note into the collecting tin, he winks at the little girl. Regarding him unblinkingly, she inserts her thumb into her mouth.

“Thanks!” says the musician, his face splitting into the most enchanting, delighted smile Arthur has ever seen. “I’m Merlin.” He leans forward to shake Arthur’s hand.

Arthur can’t help himself; he’s dazzled by that beaming grin. He smiles warmly back as he grasps Merlin’s outstretched hand.

“Arthur, pleased to meet you, Mer—bloody hell!” It’s like grasping a glacier. “You’re freezing! How long have you been out here?”

“Four hours.” Merlin grimaces. “We’re nearly done, to be honest.”

“Here. Idiot.” On an impulse, Arthur extracts a pair of gloves from his pocket, and hands them to the other man, who’s staring at him, open-mouthed. “Can’t have those clever fingers freezing off, now, can we?” He nods towards the music stands, where the other musicians have started to look restless. “I’ll keep an eye on this little ‘un here, until you’re done, and then I’ll buy you both something to warm your hands up. Deal?”

Merlin looks uncertain for a second.

“I promise I’m not a serial killer, kidnapper or pervert,” Arthur hastens to add. “Merely an interested bystander and music-lover.” But Merlin’s still hesitating.

“I tell you what, why don’t you play me a request in return,” Arthur goes on. He doesn’t know why he’s being so insistent; he doesn’t normally talk to strangers, let alone beg them to accept hot drinks. This protective instinct that has suddenly sprung itself on him must be something to do with Freya’s air of vulnerability, that must be it. It can’t possibly involve him wanting to see Merlin’s amazing smile again—to check that the expression is as joyful and sweet as he remembers—nor to do with the way that it makes his pulse jump. “I am deeply offended by ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’, and am willing to add another tenner to have something more jolly. How about ‘Jingle Bells’?”

He’s gratified when that sunbeam smile returns in full force, confirming all his previous observations. Nodding, Merlin pulls on the gloves before sauntering back to his place and settling down with the instrument to his lips.

Arthur settles on his haunches so that his eyes are level with Freya’s. She’s staring at him in that unnerving, wide-eyed way that kids have, like they can see the secrets of your heart, and Arthur wonders what she might read there.

“What’s a perpurt?” she says, frowning.

“A bad person,” says Arthur. “Don’t worry, I’m not one.”

She nods.

“Is Merlin your Dad?”

She shakes her head. “Mine uncle,” she says. “Dad’s the one playing the trombone. His name’s Will. He says Uncle Merlin doesn’t have children coz he’s a poof.”

“Right. I’m sure he does,” says Arthur, taken aback at the child’s forthrightness.

“Are you a poof, too?”

“Do you know what a poof is?”

“It’s like a cushion you put your feet on.”

“Right. Well. Good. In that case, yes, I’m a poof.”

And then the band are playing the chorus, so he sings along, and Freya joins in with him, so he changes the words in time honoured fashion. “Jingle Bells, Batman smells, Robin flew away. The Batmobile has lost its wheels and the Joker got away.” Freya giggles and claps along with the music.

He’s saddened to be pulled away when his phone starts to buzz. He pulls it out and glances at it; it’s an email from Morgana.

“I’ve resigned,” it says baldly. “It’s all yours, little brother. I refuse to be part of this glorified tax dodge for a moment longer. I’m going to work for a proper charity. I’m sending you my intern; please look after him.”

He’s puzzled. What can she possibly mean? The Pendragon Trust is a proper charity. It’s only in its second year, but they’ve got a list of wealthy donors as long as his arm, and, as the PR team he heads up is proud to announce, they’re the U.K.’s fastest expanding charity of 2013. So what can Morgana be referring to?

When the carol comes to a close, he hastily locks his phone and slides it back into his pocket. A Pendragon is always true to his word, so he still fully intends to take Merlin, Freya and her dad for a coffee at a nearby café. He walks Freya across to the musicians, while they pack their instruments away in their cases

“Thanks for that, we enjoyed it, didn’t we Freya?” Arthur says, desperately trying to forget Morgana’s email, so he can latch back on to the unfamiliar feeling of bonhomie that had suffused him the first time Merlin smiled at him. “Lovely music. Well, this is nice; shall we get that hot drink, then? What would you like?”

Freya extracts her thumb from her mouth for as long as it takes her to say “It’s all right, Daddy. Arthur’s not a perpert. He’s a poof. Like Uncle Merlin,” and then reinserts it.

Rolling his eyes, and trying to ignore the way a shameful blush blooms across his face, he goes to shake Freya’s Dad—Will?’s hand, but Will just glares at him and pointedly ignores it.

“So, is this a bribe to get into Merlin’s pants?” Will says, hands on hips, jaw jutting out.

Arthur drops his hand.

“Well, good evening, William, my name’s Arthur, how would you like a hot drink to warm up?" says Arthur, scowling. "Oh thanks for the generous offer, Arthur, you’re a gent," he answers himself, mimicking Will's voice. "You’re welcome, Will, anytime, mate," he adds in mock-reply. It’s his anxiety about Morgana that has made his voice turn sarcastic and sneery. That must be it. Nothing to do with feeling stung at the rejection.

He starts to turn and walk away, his good mood evaporating.

“Will!” Merlin sounds aghast. “Don’t be such an arsehole. He’s been really kind, and anyway, I’m an adult, you twat, I can decide for myself who I want to talk to.” He grabs Arthur by the shoulder, and hands him his gloves back, mouthing “thanks”. Their fingers touch; Merlin’s are still freezing. “I’m sorry, Will’s my big brother, and he’s a bit protective, since Mum—well, he’s protective, that’s all.”

“Keep them, idiot,” says Arthur, giving his gloves back. “Maybe wear them next time you play—and perhaps your _protective_ big brother could do a better job of ensuring that you’ve got enough clothes to keep you warm. How are you getting home?”

“Walking.”

“Let me give you all a lift,” Arthur says. He’s chafing to get back to his apartment to call Morgana in peace and quiet, find out what’s going on, but tells himself that he wants to make sure Merlin and Freya get home and warm.

It’s nothing at all to do with him angling for another one of those breathtaking twinkly-eyed grins. But when he’s on the receiving end of one that makes Merlin's eyes sparkle and glow, gold in the orange streetlights, it warms him to his core anyway.

“Fuck off, you posh wanker,” says Will, killing the moment. He grabs Freya’s hand, and his trombone case. “Just because we’re not loaded like you, doesn’t mean we’re impressed by you flashing your cash around, yeah? We’ll walk home. C’mon, Merlin.”

Merlin picks up his instrument case and, with an apologetic shrug, follows his brother. “See you around, Arthur,” he says.

He hadn’t realised it was missing, before, but when Merlin walks away, it’s like all the joy and colour has suddenly departed from Arthur’s world. 


	2. Scarf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter written for the "Scarf" square on my Merlin Writers festive bingo card...

Morgana’s not answering her phone, so when Arthur goes back to the office on Monday morning, he’s still in the dark about why she resigned. Clutching a cup of hot tea in a paper cup, he’s reminded of the little group of musicians from the previous weekend, and a heavy weight settles in his stomach. He sips his tea to try to get rid of that pang, and fails.

“Morning, Princess,” says his PA, who as usual has managed to get in earlier than him, hair glossy and perfectly coiffed, despite probably spending the entire weekend in a gutter somewhere.

“Get your feet off the desk, you layabout,” he snaps. “And stop calling me Princess. I expect proper professional conduct in the office.” It’s not like Gwaine doesn’t always address him thus, but still he can feel his anger building.

Gwaine pulls a face, but he sits up properly and schools his features into an almost-but-not-quite respectful expression, and passes over a folder.

“Your schedule is up to date, _sir_ ,” he says. Bloody hell. If he wasn’t a bloody efficient paragon, and one of Arthur's best friends to boot, he’d be out on his ear, because this sort of insolence is enough to make Arthur’s blood boil. “The new intern will be in to see you at 8.30am.”

“New intern?”

“From Morgana’s team. Uther sacked most of them, but the intern has escaped, presumably because he’s only been with us a week.”

Arthur sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. So he’s inherited one of Morgana’s lame ducks, great.

“All right,” he says. “I’ll come back then. I’ve just got to pop out for a sec.” He really has to talk to Morgana, but not in front of Gwaine. He takes his phone outside, and stands on the pavement next to the office. But her phone must be switched off; it keeps going straight to voicemail.

He turns to go back to the office, barging straight into a passer-by.

“Sorry!” he says.

“Oof,” says the stranger. His voice is muffled by a long, luridly-striped scarf which hides his face and neck, but Arthur recognizes it, nonetheless.

“Merlin!” he says, delighted. “What brings you here?”

“I’m starting a new job today. How about you?”

“I work here.” He waves vaguely at the office building with its discreet “Pendragon Trust” logo: a gold dragon on a scarlet background. “I’m due in the office, actually—meeting a new intern I inherited from my sister. Probably someone unutterably dull—I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with an accountant in my marketing team.”

Merlin’s mouth being hidden by his scarf, he can’t see what kind of reaction he’s getting to this speech. “Look,” he adds, wanting to prolong their interaction, because, although it’s freezing cold outside, there’s something about Merlin that makes him feel deliciously warm. “We never did get to have that coffee. I’ve got half an hour before my first appointment—maybe I could make it up to you now?”

Although he can’t see Merlin’s mouth, which is hidden behind that damn scarf, he knows that Merlin’s smiling, because his eyes disappear into spectacular starbursts of crinkles that make Arthur’s breathing catch.

“Yeah,” says Merlin. “I’d like that a lot, Arthur, thanks!”

ooO8Ooo

It turns out that Merlin doesn’t like coffee, and can’t stand hot chocolate.

“That’s not tea!” scoffs Arthur, sipping his Darjeeling. “It’s a travesty.”

“I don’t care,” says Merlin. He’s unwound his scarf minutely, just enough to give those plump lips access to the steaming hot, pepperminty mug.  There are about ten spoonfuls of sugar dissolved in it. Arthur is surprised Merlin’s teeth haven’t dissolved away completely under the onslaught. “It’s delicious.”

 _I bet you’re delicious,_ thinks Arthur. He’d like to test this hypothesis.

Feeling suddenly foolish, he shakes his head and smiles. “It suits you, you know.” 

Sensing Arthur’s eyes on him, Merlin looks up from his cup and blushes, biting his lip. “What?”

“That ridiculous scarf. It goes with the peppermint tea, and the curiously shaped brass instrument – you don’t believe in conforming, do you, Merlin?”

“It's a euphonium. And everyone should have the opportunity to express their individuality,” says Merlin, stirring his tea, and tapping the spoon on the top of his mug. He quirks an eyebrow at Arthur, who feels his face flush under his clear-eyed scrutiny.

“I bet you do some sort of quirky, creative job,” says Arthur. “Let me guess what you do. Are you a photographer? Fashion designer? Egyptologist?”

Merlin chuckles. “No,” he says. “You’re right that I’m doing the job that I really want to do – I’ve just started an internship, actually. I’m determined to pursue the career that I really want. You might be surprised when you find out that I’ve actually just finished my accountancy exams.”

“Really? I would never have put you down as an accountant!” Arthur feels his face going pink again when he remembers his earlier disparaging remarks about the profession.

Merlin laughs and throws an unopened packet of sugar at him. “It’s all right, I know what the stereotype is, and I’m used to prats like you making assumptions,” he says.

“Oi!”

“I’m refused to be pigeonholed by society!” says Merlin, in a lofty tone of voice. “I will pursue my right to happiness adding up columns of figures! It is my destiny to be meticulous and thorough in all things!”

Arthur laughs out loud, throwing his head back and kicking the table. A bit of his tea slurps onto the bare wood. “Whoops! I’d be the last person to make assumptions about accountants. My sister is one. She’s also an arrogant, self-righteous, forthright and downright tyrannical bossyboots, about as far from the stereotype as you can get.” He pauses to dip his biscuit into his tea, waving it to punctuate his speech. “Far be it from me to tar an entire profession with the same brush!”   

“She sounds a bit like my old boss! Anyway, my point is that everyone has a right to pursue their destiny, Arthur, even unspeakably posh people like you.”

“I wish that was true, but some of us are not so lucky,” says Arthur, pursing his lips ruefully and supping the dregs of his tea down. “Some of us have to conform.”

“Oh come off it, mate, look at you,” says Merlin, head on one side, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, “Surely you could do whatever you want with your time? You don’t come across as someone who has to scrabble around for cash. Go on, live a little, pursue your dreams!”

Arthur huffs out a surprised laugh. Well, maybe he would. Maybe he would act on impulse for once.

“Merlin?” he says. He takes a big breath to still his thumping heart.

“Hmmm?”

“I’d like to ask you something.”

“What’s that?” Merlin’s eyes are dancing now, a teasing flash of blue, and Arthur’s sure he knows, he’s just being a big flirt, and that certainty encourages him to carry on.

“Just—you,” says Arthur. “I just—do you even know? Do you even know how you make me feel? We’ve only just met, and yet I feel like I have known you forever. Your smile is like an offensive weapon. You make me laugh at myself. Not even my sister can do that! I am not normally someone who is given to impulsive behaviour, Merlin, and yet—you’re so—”

Emboldened by the fact that Merlin has not yet run out of the café, Arthur leans forward and grasps his free hand, the one that isn’t wrapped round a mug of peppermint tea. Merlin’s eyes follow his movement, his gleaming dark-pink tongue appearing at the corner of his mouth.

“I’d like to see you again. Properly, I mean,” says Arthur, feeling a little giddy at his impetuousness. “Some time when I don’t have a meeting with my new intern in—” He checks his watch. “Eight minutes.”

“Arthur—are you asking me out on a date?”

“Yes I am.”

“Wow!” The sheer joy that blazes forth from Merlin’s expression takes Arthur’s breath away.

Delighted that he could have such an impact, he passes Merlin his card. “Here,” he says. It must be the biscuit crumbs that are making his throat tight, his voice a little bit husky, despite the tea. “Here’s my mobile number. Please call me?”

Merlin nods, squirreling away the card amidst the folds of his coat. “Yeah. Yeah, I will.” His voice is soft, almost tender, caressing, and Arthur is lost. He feels his heart swell and his cheeks pink.

He smiles at Merlin lopsidedly. “Good. Well. That’s settled then.”

“Thanks Arthur, for the tea.”

“You’re welcome. Although I still don’t see how you can class what is essentially a hot, dissolved Mint Imperial as tea.” Obeying another sudden impulse, he stands, and, leaning forward presses his lips to Merlin’s forehead. Relishing Merlin’s bewildered appearance, Arthur feels ridiculously cheered as he strides out through the café door.

Pausing in the doorway, he watches Merlin rewinding his scarf round his neck like a multi-coloured cocoon. When Merlin looks up, Arthur puts a hand to his ear, thumb and little finger outstretched in imitation of a phone. “Call me!” he mimes, telling himself he’s not really just hoping to bask in another one of those heart-stopping grins.

But when he’s awarded one, it fills him with an overwhelming warmth, and he realises he’s not fooling anyone, not even himself.

ooO8Ooo

“All right Gwaine,” he says into the intercom. “Please send him in now.”

The door opens, and Arthur’s jaw drops to the floor.

The man who is hovering, uncertainly, in the doorway, looks equally gobsmacked.

“ _Mer_ lin! You were Morgana’s intern?”

“Arthur? _You?_ You’re Morgana’s pompous git of a—arse—er  I mean” Merlin fingers his collar, flushing deep red to the tips of his ears. “You’re very different from her description.”

“Right.”

Arthur can’t help grinning – at Merlin’s discomfort, he tells himself, definitely not the heady thought that he’s going to be seeing Merlin for eight or more hours a day for the next three months. He feels buoyant, almost hysterical, and can’t help noticing that Merlin’s face is also splitting merrily, cheeks positively peppered with dimples.

“She neglected to tell me about your—”  he waves his hand at Merlin’s eccentric scarf, which is currently coiled loosely round his neck like a gaudy, sated python. “Your—charming way with accessories and such.”

Nor did she warn me about your enchanting facial expressions, he thinks to himself. One of those—a coy sort of half-grin—was  was currently gracing Merlin’s countenance now.

As for Arthur—well, he’s smiling so much he thinks his face will crack. He can’t help feeling that his face lit up when Merlin entered the room the same way that the entire town of Lewes erupts in flames on Bonfire Night.

And so of course his accursed memory chooses that moment to prompt him about the small print in the “Pendragon Trust” employee manual that strictly forbids fraternising with other members of staff. He feels his grin slip and falter.

 “Yes. Well. Thank you Merlin. Gwaine will tell you what to do. That will be all.” He points at the door with his pen.

Merlin’s face falls, and Arthur’s bereft. Antipodean glaciers must look like this, he thinks, when vast parts of them give up clinging on, and crash into the merciless, Antarctic sea.

“Arthur? Are you all right? You look like you’ve swallowed a brick.” Merlin strides forward and touches Arthur’s hand. His concern makes Arthur snatch his hand away, because he’s really not got enough self-control for this.

“I’m fine, really, thank you Merlin. Just—” He sighs, pinching the top of his nose. “Just have Gwaine show you the employee manual, I think it’s on page 23. I am sorry, I really am, but I can’t just—Uther is my father, you see. I have to show a good example.”

Looking puzzled, Merlin nods and sidles towards the door. “I’ll show myself out then, shall I?”

Arthur doesn’t trust his voice to reply.


	3. Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter written for the "Travel" square on my Merlin Festive Bingo card.

It’s all Morgana’s fault. And Uther’s.

There’s no way that anyone can possibly blame Arthur for turning into some sort of Grinch-like creature, with a temper so vile that it threatens to make the Pointsettia Merlin has placed on his desk wilt. The situation is becoming intolerable. It’s enough to make any saintly Bob-Cratchett-like person turn into an ogre.

For a start off, apparently Merlin’s the Anti-Scrooge. He's so full of Christmas spirit that one of these days he’ll keel over and explode in a cloud of mulled wine, Quality Street and bright-eyed good intentions.

Take yesterday morning. Merlin turned up at the office with a lovingly wrapped packet of home-made fudge, and presented it to Arthur with the sort of tentative, hopeful smile that makes Arthur want to slay monsters and lay the treasures plundered from vanquished foes at his feet.

Feeling delight threaten to tug at the corners of his mouth, Arthur managed with great difficulty to school his face into what he thought was a detached, professional expression, say a curt “thank you,” and turn away—but not before Merlin’s crestfallen expression sliced his heart in two.

He’s standing there again now, with a sly grin on his face, head on one side, eyelids fluttering closed so that they fan out on his cheek. Flirting like that, with bosses who are not allowed to touch, may violate all sorts of clauses in the employee handbook. Arthur thinks he's going to have to burn the bloody thing, or bash Uther round the head with it, repeatedly, until he repeals it and replaces it with something more human. 

“What on earth are you wearing, Merlin?” says Arthur, with what he hopes is a neutral expression.

To give him credit, Merlin’s smile doesn’t falter. “What?” he says innocently. “Oh! This? Do you like it?”

“Is it legal to knit Christmas lights into woolly jumpers?” says Arthur.

“Only when you can make Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer do this!” Merlin triumphantly presses a hidden button and the prominent reindeer nose on his jumper lights up, together with myriad multi-coloured flashing lights

It’s not the only thing that lights up; so does Merlin’s face. In an impossibly endearing grin. The sort of grin that epitomises Christmas joy. If Arthur could wrap that grin in a box and put it under the tree, he need never be gloomy again.

“It’s the most ridiculous garment I have ever seen,” says Arthur. It’s adorable.  

Through sheer, dogged bloody-mindedness, Merlin perseveres daily with his quest to thaw Arthur’s stony heart with gifts and ridiculous Christmassy attire.

Arthur wants to scream at him to stop, because it’s not as if Arthur’s heart isn’t already a molten puddle of goop. He’s so smitten that smite-marks pepper his steely Pendragon soul like love-shrapnel.

It’s  only the fact that he’s been trained, since birth, to wrap his emotions up in a full metal jacket, as if they’re concealed weapons threatening to burst forth from under his skin, that means he’s able to put on the necessary mask of indifference every morning and face the day.

“You can’t wear that here,” Arthur goes on. “It’s a fire risk.” His voice sounds a bit strangled, even to himself.

When Merlin’s eager face, confronted with Arthur’s best clenched-jaw, pursed-lip frown, inevitably falls, Arthur hides the way it pains him by swallowing and looking down. It’s for the best, he tells himself, if he doesn’t let Merlin know how much he wishes things could be different.

“I was hoping I could wear it on our trip,” says Merlin, voice all crestfallen.

“What trip?”

“Hasn’t Uther told you? We’re going to Paris on the Eurostar this afternoon, and spending the day tomorrow talking to some of our French donors.” Merlin looks down at his toes. “I was looking forward to it. I thought it might cheer you up a bit to—erm, well, you know, get away from the office for a bit. You’ve been a bit sad recently, you know, not like you were when we had a coffee that time, and I thought…,” looking back up, he trails off, no doubt seeing the dumbstruck expression on Arthur’s face. “Never mind.”

Arthur’s speechless.

Great. Bloody Uther. He’s not content with merely producing that nonsensical “no-fraternising” policy, which is killing Arthur daily when he has to look at the back of Merlin’s slender neck for eight hours at a time.

Oh no. Not content with that, bloody Uther is sending them away on a two-day business trip to the most romantic city in the world, where no doubt they’ll be forced to sleep under the same roof, albeit in adjacent rooms.

That’s it. Uther is trying to kill him.

There’s a knock on the door and Gwaine saunters in.

“Hi Arthur – I’ve packed you an overnight bag—oh, hi Merlin! Nice Christmas jumper, mate!” Nonchalantly flicking his hair out of his face, Gwaine leers at the reindeer on Merlin’s stomach.

Blushing, Merlin makes Rudolph’s nose glow, and he looks down at it proudly while the lights on the jumper flash in rainbow shades.

“Yours isn’t bad either!” he says, looking up.

Apparently there’s some kind of Christmas knitwear fad infecting Pendragon Trust employees. Gwaine’s wearing a white sweater, adorned with interlinked Christmas trees and elves in lurid red Santa hats.

“When you two have quite finished,” snaps Arthur, “some of us have work to do round here.”

“Oh, right. I’ll come out and get Arthur’s bag,” says Merlin. “See you in a bit, Arthur.” The two of them step out, chatting animatedly.

Arthur scowls at the door. If Gwaine gets his mitts into Merlin he’ll—well, he’d just better not, that’s all.

When the strains of Michael Buble singing “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas”, accompanied by two off-key male voices, filter through his door he throws his shoe at it and yells at them to shut up.

Gwaine pokes his head round the door. “Temper, Princess!” he says.

This time Arthur doesn’t have to make an effort to sculpt his features into a scowl while he throws his other shoe at Gwaine’s head.

ooO8Ooo

It’s going to be a long Eurostar journey, Arthur is sure of that.

It’s bad enough that Merlin’s brought along a packet of mince pies—apparently, after extensive testing, he and Gwaine have concluded that the Tesco Finest ones are definitely the best on offer this year—but what is really driving him mad is Merlin’s sheer presence. His warm chatter, his sweet, sly sideways glances, his pleasing profile, the way his graceful hands narrate every anecdote—it’s all a bit too much for Arthur to ignore, and he finds himself thawing, despite himself, with every mile that separates them from the office.

Merlin’s telling some childhood tale.

“You should have seen Will’s face,” he’s saying. “I don’t think he’d ever tried champagne before! He spat it out all over the table, and mum didn’t half yell at him! And then he told that joke about the policewoman with the shaved pubic hair!”

“Sounds like your mum had her hands full, with you two!” says Arthur.

Merlin pauses, looking down at his hands. “Yeah. Yeah, she did. She was amazing, my mum.” He swallows; in profile, Arthur can see his Adam’s apple drop.

There’s a tell-tale past tense in Merlin’s description of his mother. If the smile that appears on Merlin’s face looks a bit tired, a bit forced, Arthur doesn’t mention it.

“What joke?” he says instead.

“Oh you know the joke, Arthur.”

“Let’s say for one moment that I don’t know.”

“Ok. Well. It’s not the sort of joke that you’d normally tell your boss, but—“

“I insist.”

“All right. Well. All right.” Shifting a bit in his seat, Merlin clears his throat with a nervous air. “Erm. What do you call a policewoman with shaved pubic hair?”

“I don’t know. What do you call a policewoman with shaved pubic hair?”

“Constable,” says Merlin, face serious for a heartbeat or two. “Constable—cuntstubble? geddit?” Doubling over with a manic-sounding cackle, he nudges Arthur with a sharp elbow.

Arthur doesn’t, at first, and then he does, and wishes he hadn’t. He looks around to check no-one is listening.

“That’s awful! How old was your brother when he told that joke to your mum?” Arthur says.

“Ten!”

They lock eyes and then burst out laughing. “Seriously? That’s the most disturbing story I think I’ve ever heard!” says Arthur. When he tries to imagine the look on Uther’s stony face if he ever told that joke at a family Christmas dinner, he actually snorts. He can’t help it.

Chortling along with him, Merlin says “I know, Mum was so horrified, she wouldn’t let him open his Christmas presents ‘til Boxing Day!”

Even choking on a mince pie, Arthur feeling more relaxed than he has for ages. And he can’t help the warmth that licks into his gut as he looks over at Merlin’s shining, animated eyes, his expressive hands.

Oh God. How much longer til they get to Paris?

ooO8Ooo

As they emerge from the tunnel into France, Arthur’s phone starts beeping madly at him. He looks at it in bafflement.

There are about ten text messages, all from an unknown French number. He looks at the first one and frowns.

_Uther took out an injunction and blocked my mobile. I’m not allowed to contact you, or leave the country, but I got a French friend to send you this. Get Merlin to find out where the money has gone. Morgana x_

The rest of the messages are identical.

Aghast, he shows the message to Merlin. “What can she mean by _find out where the money has gone_ , do you think?”

Merlin shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says.

Silent for a moment, Arthur mulls this over and doesn’t like the conclusions he reaches. He’s not sure what she could have uncovered that Uther is desperate for him not to find out about – but whatever it is, it’s his duty to look into it.

“She did show me how to log into the accounts system before she left,” says Merlin, sipping his peppermint tea. “And I still have my login. I could check out the company balance sheet if you like?

Arthur nods. “I think that’s probably what she means,” he says. “Uther probably hasn’t noticed that you still have a login. I wonder what he’s concealing from me?” This last phrase was delivered under his breath.

Watching him, Merlin purses his lips, his normally dancing eyes grave for once. “I’ll find out for you, Arthur,” he says. “I’m good with numbers.”

ooO8Ooo

They elect to take the Metro from Gard du Nord to where they are staying near Odeon. Somehow, even though Paris is only, what, 250 miles from London? It seems so exotic, so foreign. Even mannerisms, the way that people pout and shrug as they speak, are palpably different from cynical old London. The thrill of romance is distilled into Paris's foundations, and Arthur feels his heartrate increase as he exchanges a loaded glance with Merlin.

A woman boards the train, carrying a Christmas tree that's even bigger than her. When they disembark, there's a tang of Gitanes in the air, and they trail past a half dozen chic-looking cafes en route. Arthur half expects someone to leap out from behind a table, playing accordion music and carrying a string of onions, and laughs at himself for the stereotype.

By the time they get to their hotel, Arthur’s exhausted, eyes crossing from researching for his presentations to donors the following day. He decides to go straight to sleep.

When he goes down for a meagre breakfast—croissants and hot chocolate—Merlin’s in the breakfast room sipping peppermint tea. His tie is askew and his suit rumpled; he looks like he hasn’t slept.

“You can’t present to donors looking like that, Merlin,” he scoffs, setting his tray down. “They’ll think you are the charity case they’re donating to.”

“I don’t think they will,” says Merlin, his eyes hooded, lips turned down. “I don’t think anything will stop them.”

Arthur has lifted the croissant towards his lips, but sets it down again despite his hunger. That ominous expression on Merlin’s face has given him goose-bumps.

“You might as well tell me now,” says Arthur. “I’d rather get it out of the way.”

Merlin nods. “Well, as far as I can tell, the Pendragon Trust’s income from wealthy donors last year was £15.6 million.”

Arthur grins. “That’s brilliant,” he says.

But Merlin’s shaking his head now. “The amount that actually found its way to good causes was £58,000.”

Arthur’s mouth drops open. “That can’t be right. You’ve missed out on some zeroes somewhere.”

“Nope. It’s absolutely correct.” Merlin pauses, dipping his croissant into his peppermint tea, and Arthur shudders at the thought of the mingled taste of butter and peppermint.

“The charitable trust buys and sells government bonds to wealthy donors – and they claim all the tax back.”

Arthur frowns. “What do you mean?”

Merlin takes a sip of his tea. “Well, let’s say I’m a wealthy donor and I donate a cool million quid to Pendragon Trust out of my taxed income. Because it’s a charity, and because I paid tax on that income when I earned it, I get a massive tax rebate. Meanwhile, the fabulous Pendragon Trust uses my million quid, to buy a bunch of government bonds. Then—and here’s the clever bit—I buy these bonds from Pendragon Trust at a bargain price, let’s call it £1000. Jolly good eggs, Pendragon Trust, I was at school with most of them. So I give Pendragon £1000 and now I’ve got a whole load of bonds worth considerably more than that. But I don’t want bonds, I want my million quid back. So I sell them back to Pendragon Trust at the original price, a million quid, no hard feelings, which is what I’ve originally donated. I’ve got my million back, plus all the tax I claimed back from the tax man."

Biting into his croissant, so that tea dribbles down his chin, Merlin delivers the punchline in sombre tones. “I'm sorry Arthur. It looks like the Pendragon Trust is just a simple, and very successful, tax avoidance scam.”

"What? No, that can't be right. Uther would never—I mean, my mother founded this charity, Uther wouldn't—"

Icy hands squeeze at Arthur’s heart, and all the joy that he’s ever felt in his work suddenly turns to bitterness. He looks down at his untouched croissant and finds he hasn’t got the stomach for it any more. 

"I'm afraid he has, Arthur." Sipping his tea, silently, Merlin just looks at him like he can fix it all, like he's got some sort of power over the situation, but he hasn't. 

Because it looks like Morgana is right. There’s nothing worthy about the Pendragon Trust.

"So that's it, then," he whispers. "It's all been for nothing. What am I going to do, Merlin?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry, Arthur. I just don't know."              

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find the activities of this pseudo-charity far-fetched, perhaps you would be interested to read about the recent scandal involving a U.K. charity called "The Cup Trust", which operated precisely this kind of tax avoidance scam. 
> 
> http://www.civilsociety.co.uk/governance/news/content/14338/charity_tax-avoidance_scheme_did_not_break_any_charity_laws


	4. Mistletoe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the "Mistletoe" square on my Merlin Writers festive bingo card.

“Good evening,” says Arthur, smiling and waving as he makes a path through the centre of the room. He drains a glass of champagne for Dutch courage. His eyes dart about, until they rest on Merlin, resplendent in a traditional dinner suit, with a novelty red polka-dot bow tie that flashes brightly in the dim candlelight. He looks positively edible.

Arthur scowls when he sees Gwaine hovering nearby, just under a carelessly placed sprig of mistletoe. Once he gets that “no fraternising” policy rescinded he’ll have to move quickly, before his PA beats him to the prize.

To the external observer, Arthur must seem to be meandering purposelessly through the room, laughing and joking like all the other staff members. But he has a purpose. He has a destination. He is headed—albeit indirectly—for Uther’s office.

His destination lies at the top of a grand staircase – he supposes that once, this building, would have been a great house, the family residence of a grand dynasty. But now it has been divided into ill-fitting sections for small businesses and so forth. He can see that the door is closed - Uther is still in there, working. Now that Arthur knows what the real business of the charity is, he fails to understand why his father works all the hours that God sends.

Goodness only knows what possessed Uther to hold this year’s office Christmas Party at The Pendragon Trust offices. The ensuing disturbance will be a terrible distraction from his oh-so-important work.

As the rent in this well-to-do part of Camelot is astronomical, the offices are distinctly bijou. Almost petite. This means that probably the entire company, all ten employees, with their assorted plus ones, who are gathered in the main open plan area, will hear what Arthur says to his father.

Good. He makes a point of leaving the door to Uther’s office ajar, for maximum effect. It is something they need to hear.

Uther looks up and removes his reading glasses, signalling to Arthur to sit down. Instead, Arthur remains standing and slides an envelope across his desk.

“Present for you, Father,” he says.

Uther quirks a weary eyebrow at him but doesn’t pick up the envelope.

“It’s my letter of resignation.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous, Arthur. I don’t accept—”

Holding up a hand to halt his father’s inevitable lecture, Arthur carries on speaking.

“I will not change my mind about this. I have looked carefully at the company accounts, and found them wanting. Do you know what proportion of the so-called donations from wealthy individuals has actually been used for good causes, Father? Less than one per-cent!”

Leaning forward so that his elbows are on the desk, Arthur clenches his jaw so that his teeth grind audibly. He’s gratified when Uther flinches and looks away.

“I find this unacceptable.”

“Arthur—this charity does a lot for worthy—”  

“Oh spare me the self-righteous clap trap, Father. I used to look up to you, respect you. But now I find you are simply helping wealthy people to weasel out of their social obligations by sheltering their ill-earned cash from taxation in offshore locations.”

“People are entitled to keep what they earn,” says Uther, standing up, his voice rising, pompous and bombastic. “These businessmen are the lifeblood of the country, and the government bleeds them dry with ridiculous taxes—I am merely helping them to hold on to what is theirs.”

“You are wrong Uther,” says Arthur, shaking with his vehemence. “The nurses, doctors, police, refuse collectors, teachers, social workers—these are the people that keep the country safe and healthy, these are the people that your so-called lifeblood businessmen are stealing from by refusing to pay tax. You are nothing but a thief.”

“How dare you!” screams Uther, face contorted with rage, veins standing out on his neck. “I have done nothing illegal.”

“Maybe it’s not illegal,” yells Arthur, slamming Uther’s desk, “but this whole endeavour is wicked, immoral and dishonourable. I will have nothing more to do with you, or with this scam. I thought we were doing something worthy of my mother, in her honour, for the good causes that she believed in. But I was wrong. You are not worthy of her good name!”

Stalking towards the partly open door, where the sounds of the party have fallen silent, he turns back towards his father and delivers his ultimatum.

“Fix this, Father,” he says. “Fix it, and then we will see. But until then, I refuse to have anything more to do with you, or your so-called charity. Oh, and I almost forgot.” He pulls the employee handbook from under his dinner jacket, open to the “no fraternising” page, where the relevant section has been picked out by pink highlighter pen. “Bloody well get rid of that, while you’re at it.”

He strides out of the room and slams the door behind him.

Arthur looks down upon the gathered assembly. A sea of shocked faces gazes up at him, eyes round and glistening by the light of the candles that festoon the room. He starts to descend the spiral staircase, eyes searching for two things: Merlin, and a sprig of mistletoe. 

He spies them close together, but is not impressed when he sees Gwaine hovering nearby with an optimistic expression on his face. Buoyed up by his own recklessness, and fuelled by adrenaline, he vaults the balustrade, landing squarely on both feet, and grabs two glasses of champagne from a nearby waitress’s tray, vaguely aware that around him people have started to applaud. The crowd parts to let him through.

Plucking the mistletoe from where someone has casually thrust it into a ceiling lamp, he stalks up to Merlin with long, intent strides. He thrusts one of the glasses of champagne into Merlin’s hand, and holds the sprig of mistletoe over Merlin’s head.

The soft, adoring expression in Merlin’s eyes is all the encouragement Arthur needs. He inches closer until their lips are pressed together and sighs, eyes fluttering closed, all the tension leaching from his shoulders. Merlin tastes of champagne, and peppermint, and something else, something that makes Arthur’s spine tingle and his gut tighten. The answering groan that his kiss pulls from Merlin’s throat whispers straight past Arthur’s heart to his loins, where it joins a growing pool of desire.

For a moment Arthur can hear nothing but the hammering of his heart, can see nothing but the impression of Merlin’s face on his retina, can feel nothing but the soft, infinitely hot embrace of Merlin’s velvet lips. He wants to stay in this perfect moment forever. But then he becomes dimly aware of the sound of glass smashing, and a cacophony of clapping, whoops and cheers. When he surfaces for a moment he realises that they’re all aimed in his direction.

Both he and Merlin have let their glasses slide from boneless fingers to the floor, in a cascade of champagne and cut glass. There’s no time to process that before he finds himself gripped hard and pulled in tight for another kiss, harder and more insistent than the first.

But what’s this? Something is vibrating and fluttering against his throat. Puzzled, and with some reluctance, he breaks the kiss and looks down.

It’s Merlin’s bow tie. It’s started to spin, madly, the polka dots and lights making shimmering circles against Merlin’s collar.

“Wow. I’ve never had that effect on anyone before,” jokes Arthur.

“It’s a unique talent of yours, boss,” says Merlin.

“I have many other unique talents,” purrs Arthur.

Merlin gulps. “I look forward to exploring them in great detail.”

Growing weary of the spectacle, the assorted members of staff of the Pendragon Trust turn away from the lengthy kiss that’s taking place under the mistletoe. The kiss becomes more and more heated with every moment.

A voice – he thinks it might be Gwaine - can be heard muttering “get a room.”

Not much later, Arthur slips away with his Merlin by his side, and they walk through Camelot, hand in hand, sharing secrets by the light of the eternal stars and a pale sliver of moon.


End file.
